The Piano
by logastellus
Summary: It ain't easy being Wilson. There's Wilson, House, Julie, some medicine. And a piano, of course. Rated M for adult themes and sexual content. Feedback and concrit encouraged. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Alas, I have no claim of any kind on House, Wilson, or the other denizens of PPTH. That I like to write about them is merely an homage to the outstanding work of David Shore and the writers who bring these characters to life each week.

* * *

& & &

* * *

November, 2005 

Wilson glances at the piano as he returns from the kitchen with two more beers. The keyboard cover is closed, but no dust sullies the polished wood. It has been played recently, then, or at least it has been cared for.

_Star Trek II_ is on TV, and House's favorite line is coming up. Wilson hands over a bottle just in time for it to be brandished dramatically at the screen.

"Khaaannnn!" House smiles with satisfaction. "Now there's a captain. James T. knew how to hold a grudge, unlike the rest of those conciliatory pansies Starfleet put in charge of ships."

A long swallow of lager prefaces the sort of abrupt subject change Wilson long ago became accustomed to. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with that new hematologist."

Wilson rolls his eyes. He knew House would bring this up sooner or later. "We work together. So what?"

House narrows his eyes skeptically, which has the effect of turning up the intensity of his blue gaze — a fact of which he is almost certainly aware. "So… there's no particular reason for the oncology nurses to giggle as fetchingly as they do when she 'drops by' your office for a consult?" The scare quotes are audible. "Which, by the way, she seems to do quite often."

"Some doctors actually do answer their consult pages, you know. Morgen's a damn good hematologist, and she's double-boarded in infectious disease to boot. Gee, I can't think of any reason we might work together, like say, leukemia patients with crappy immune systems."

"You had lunch with her twice last week. Lots of cancer patients in the cafeteria?"

"It's not like that! She's…"

"Nice? Should I be on the lookout for the green tie?"

"…a friend," Wilson finishes, firmly. "She's a friend."

House leans back, only the slight widening of his eyes giving a bare hint that the answer might have been unexpected. He regards Wilson for a long moment, then turns his attention back to the television.

Wilson carefully hides his sigh of relief. House has never been less than prickly, but these days his friend seems all jagged edges, sharp enough to draw blood from anyone who gets too close. His marriage is an uncomfortable subject at the best of times, but between Julie's icy silences and House's willingness to cross the line between blunt and cruel… well, this didn't get within miles of "the best of times."

They watch the movie for awhile, House wisecracking like he's narrating for Mystery Science Theater 3000. Wilson responds out of habit, but his heart isn't really in it. He feels tired. Tired of fighting with Julie, tired of wondering why he can't keep a relationship together, tired of watching Greg kill himself by inches.

His gaze wanders, comes to rest on graceful fingers wrapped casually around a sweating beer bottle. He closes his eyes, and wonders how long it has been since House played. Wilson tries to think, can't remember hearing the piano since … mid-spring, since House treated Mark Warner. His mind idles around the problem. It should tell him something, he knows. The silence. It matters, maybe, if the silence is just for him. He doesn't know if it is better to hope so, or not.

Has Greg played at all? Or has he just sat on the bench with his soft cotton cloths and wiped the dust from each key? Wilson watched him do it once. Fifty-two white keys, each one receiving a separate stroke of the lightly dampened cloth. Then a new cloth, thirty-six times over the black keys. Or has the keyboard cover not been lifted at all? Was it just a quick swipe across the smooth wood that carried away the dust, leaving the keys beneath untouched?

He wishes he knew, wishes he had enough information for a differential diagnosis. Of House, or of himself, for that matter.

& & &

He blinks wearily as House levers himself off the couch. Movie credits roll down the television screen. At the sideboard, House pours himself a scotch and glances at Wilson.

"Want one?"

He starts to say yes, then thinks about the time. As much as he doesn't want to go home, waiting will only make it worse. Julie always wakes up when he comes to bed, always notes the hour.

"No, I'm going."

House nods. "Julie is waiting."

"Yeah."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

He pauses in the doorway. She is not asleep.

The melancholy notes of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_ hang in the air, and the blue glow of the CD player's digital display faintly illuminates her form, perched in the low window seat. She is a silhouette against the black glass.

He knows without seeing her face that she's been crying. "Julie."

She shifts, but does not turn to look at him. A glint of light reflects from the wineglass cradled limply in her hands. Just a few swallows of dark liquid remain.

Once, he would have gone to her, he knows. Would have knelt beside her, cradled her face in his hands, kissed the tears away and promised that it would be okay. But that was before the cutting words and awful silences, before this thing they couldn't get through and couldn't get past. Now he just stands awkwardly in the doorway, bracing himself for whatever will come next.

When at last she speaks, her voice is hard. "Why not, James?"

He flinches. It's going to be this fight again, the one he can't ever win, can't even argue, because he can't explain it to himself, let alone to her. He can only stand there and let her hate him.

A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck and he takes a few steps into the elegantly appointed room. He sighs wearily. She wants a better answer, is entitled to a better answer, but he can only give the one he has. "I don't know. I just can't."

She is silent for a long moment, and then the dam breaks. Her voice sounds like the words are tearing at her throat. "Oh God, James, I can't bear it. I can't."

Her grief breaks his immobility, and he is crossing the room before he thinks about it. He kneels beside her and reaches for her, then hesitates, afraid of her reaction. Her face is twisted in agony, eyes clenched shut, and he loathes himself for doing this to her. Finally he touches her knee. As if that simple contact had upset whatever fragile balance had been holding her upright, she collapses against him, sobbing helplessly into his shoulder. He takes the wineglass and puts it aside, then wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. His cheek comes to rest against the top of her head as he murmurs a soft litany of comfortless words. "Oh, Julie. Oh, my very dear. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

He holds her for a long time, while she weeps for the child he can't bring himself to give her. When she begins to quiet, he reaches for his handkerchief. She takes the proffered cloth and dries her face. At last, she heaves a shuddering sigh and is still, relaxed against him. Pulling back a little, he looks down at her. She lifts her head to meet his gaze. He feels like he should say something, but can't find anything left to say. Instead, he touches his lips chastely to hers, a peace offering. Her skin is salty with tears, and his heart contracts painfully. Then her mouth opens beneath his and the earthy taste of the wine is dark on his tongue. Her hands are in his hair, pulling him down, as though she could draw him close enough to erase all the distances between them.

It's like a first kiss all over again, shy and tender, but somehow demanding too. He savors it, savors her more carefully than he has in too long. Suddenly hungry to touch her, he gathers her up and stands. Four steps bring him to the bed, and he lowers her to the quilt. She lies passive as he removes her clothing, then watches him wordlessly as he removes his own. He stands next to the bed, suddenly apprehensive at what might lie beneath her silence, afraid to give her one more thing to hate him for. Then she lifts her arms to him, and the gesture of welcome is unmistakable. He stretches beside her, the length of their bodies touching, and begins to reacquaint himself with his wife.

She is too thin, all planes and angles. This is his fault, he knows, the toll of her longing and his refusal. He takes his time, telling her with hands and lips that everything will be okay. For a moment, as her breath quickens and her back arches beneath his touch, he even believes it.

When waiting another moment seems impossible, he reaches into the drawer of the nightstand. Her eyes snap open and focus on the small package in his hand. Face crumpling with renewed betrayal, she rolls onto her side, turning her back to him. Mouth set, he tears open the package and smoothes on the condom. It is not in him to give her what she wants, and he will not let her take the choice from him.

With a hand on her hip, he rolls her gently back toward him. She does not resist, but neither will she meet his eyes. Nudging apart her knees, he moves between her legs, entwines his fingers with hers above her head. Still she does not look at him. He dusts kisses across her face, mouth coming to rest beside her ear. His eyes drift shut and he feels his lashes brush against her cheek. One word is all he has, a soft exhalation. "Julie." So much in that word, and not nearly enough.

Her breath catches in her throat, and it is all the invitation she will give. He moves forward slowly, enters her. She cries out softly, and does not pull away. He makes love to her with all the tenderness he has, coaxing her pleasure. When she comes, it is silent, shuddering limbs wrapping around him and pulling him close and sending him tumbling over the edge.

After, she looks away while he disposes of the condom. When he lies back, she curls up against him, head on his shoulder and arm curved across his chest. Though she is still, the drip of hot tears onto his skin betrays her weeping. She says nothing, and neither does he.

In time, she sleeps.

He does not.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

* * *

Ella Morgen faces Wilson across the expanse of his desk, feeling out of uniform in jeans and a button-down, tawny hair swept up in a carelessly un-doctorish ponytail. Wilson, on the other hand, is every inch the Head of Oncology in his pristine white lab coat and conservative clothes. She remembers that James's first wife always chose his ties for him, and wonders idly if the current wife does too.

The faint lines around Wilson's mouth deepen as he smiles tiredly. "Then he is a good candidate for the study?"

Ella smiles back. Seth Greer, an eight year old with recurrent lymphoma, still has a crummy prognosis, but it is better now than it was an hour ago. "Oh yeah. I'll fax Aster for approval, of course, but Seth definitely fits the parameters. You've read the protocol?"

Wilson nods.

"Then you know that rituximab with a YIT chaser shows some promise for treating recurrent small noncleaved cell lymphoma, but it may be harder on the patient than even the usual high-dose cytarabine cocktail. The poor kid'll be a pincushion with all the blood draws we're going to have to do to keep an eye on his hematologic toxicity."

She pages through the thick chart, checking on the previous course of treatment. "He suffered no tumor lysis the first time around?"

"No. In fact he responded pretty much textbook-perfect to his first round of treatment and was cancer-free for almost six months. SNCC has about a ninety percent cure rate these days, and everything went so smoothly we thought for sure he'd be one of the ninety."

"I guess he drew the short straw. Well, let's see what we can do about improving his odds of pulling the long straw this time. I'll fax this over to Aster on my way out, get him assigned to a protocol group right away, and he can probably start treatment tomorrow."

"You mean you're not going to stay and help me explain the inner workings of a phase I study of the use of rituximab followed by yttrium90 ibritumomab tiuxetan?"

Ella shakes her head with a laugh, relieved to see that whatever personal disquiet has occasioned the dark circles beneath Wilson's eyes hasn't robbed him of his wry humor. "Sounds tempting, but no. You can go explain the details to Seth's parents, I'm going antiquing. I've been in Princeton almost a month and I've barely started replacing the furniture I so blithely declared was more trouble to move than it was worth. You wouldn't…"

She pauses and turns to look as something clicks against the glass behind her. She catalogues the man standing outside on the balcony — tall, slightly scruffy, no lab coat, leaning lightly on a cane, right knee casually bent. The cane. Mystery solved, her eyes travel back up to his face. She suddenly understands all the gossip. He really does have the most astonishingly blue eyes.

A mischievous grin lights her face as she turns back to Wilson. "That must be the notorious Gregory House. Does he always throw pebbles at your window like a lovesick teenager? No wonder half the hospital thinks he's hoping to be Mrs. Wilson Number Four."

She rises, her cool grace a deliberate and mocking contrast to the hot flush of embarrassment she has induced in Wilson. It is an interesting reaction, and a corner of her mind wonders whether it is just normal straight-guy embarrassment about a gay joke or whether her jibe might have hit somewhat closer to home.

Ella looks down at him, eyes still glinting with humor but mouth curved in a genuine smile. "Relax, Jimmy." Her eyes soften, something else replacing the humor. "Everyone should have one friend they love that much." With a last smile, she leaves.

* * *

& & &

* * *

House tosses the ball from hand to hand meditatively. The set of three oversized, colorful balls had been a gag gift years ago. He'd mocked Wilson one too many times about tennis being a sport for tail-wagging Labradors, all that energetic chasing of a little yellow ball. He keeps one on his desk because he likes watching people try to figure it out. And having something in his hands helps him think. He isn't good at stillness. 

The ball isn't helping today. His patient is getting sicker by the hour, and he can't shake the feeling that he has missed something important in the maddeningly unremarkable test results arrayed before him. The stroke-like symptoms defy the clean CT and angio. Eighteen kinds of tests later, all House has to work with is mildly elevated protein in the CSF tap and a faintly low T4 level, both values still within normal limits. Maybe a quick chat with Wilson will jog something loose. He sets the ball down, grabs his cane, and limps purposefully through the balcony door, towards Wilson's office.

Outside, he pauses. A woman is seated opposite Wilson, talking with him. A patient? She looks around at the click of a pebble thrown against the glass door. Not a patient, but that new hematologist Wilson is so fond of. Their eyes meet briefly, then hers drop to the cane, and linger.

His jaw twitches in a flash of familiar anger.

Her gaze slowly travels up until she meets his eyes again, and a crooked grin lifts her mouth as she turns back to say something to Wilson. Interesting. It has been awhile since House has seen a woman make Wilson blush. She stands, delivers a parting shot, and saunters out.

Wilson edges out from behind the desk and joins House on the balcony.

"Took you long enough. Were you interviewing Mrs. Wilson Number Four?"

Wilson makes an odd, strangled sound, and blushes again. Definitely interesting. "Hardly. You may recall the job is not available, since I'm still married to the current Mrs. Wilson?"

House snorts indelicately. "Not for long if she hears you're conducting interviews. In broad daylight, no less!"

"_That_ was a hematology consult, not a date."

House goggles in mock astonishment. "That was a doctor? Surely not. I didn't see a lab coat. Doesn't she know Cuddy will send the fashion police if she's caught without a lab coat?"

Wilson's eyes flash a smile, though he schools his mouth to sternness. "First of all, Cuddy hasn't hassled you about the coat since Vogler left. Second, Cuddy would probably never hassle Morgen about not wearing a coat, because unlike you, _she_ knows how to be nice to people. And third, she does wear a coat, but not on her days off. She just stopped in to assess a patient's suitability for a clinical trial she's been involved with."

House leers dramatically. "I wonder what sort of payment she'll extract for doing you the favor?" It is only half a joke. House can do the math. Wilson's reluctance to go home last night plus today's tired eyes equals a man whose marriage is foundering. Granted, Morgen is not Wilson's usual type — her face is too strong-boned for conventional prettiness, and she appears to be closer to House's age than to Wilson's — but the blushing was undeniable. He wonders how long it will be before Julie has papers served, and whether Wilson will show up at his door or at Morgen's. His, he hopes. He doesn't think much of a woman smart enough for medicine but dumb enough to make eyes at a man working on his third divorce.

"And why is it," Wilson retorts, "you never worry about what payment _I'll_ extract for favors? Since that does seem to be the norm."

House doesn't immediately respond. He cocks his head at Wilson, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth as the pieces fall together in his mind. "It does _seem_ to be the norm, doesn't it? But what if it isn't? A _seemingly_ normal T4, and a _seemingly_ normal CSF tap. I wonder if Cameron thought to check thyroglobulin or microsomal antibody titers?" He wheels abruptly and heads back inside.

* * *

& & &

* * *

Wilson watches House move off in search of a fellow to run new tests, then turns to lean on the balcony wall. House means well, he knows. 

The opening arpeggios of the _Moonlight Sonata_ echo soundlessly in his thoughts, haunting him with the memory of Julie's tears. In his mind, Greg's hands are at the keyboard.

He remembers getting drunk with House the night before his wedding, remembers promising that this time would be different, that he wouldn't screw it up. That he'd be worthy of Julie's trust in him. The gentle — and sometimes not-so-gentle — mocking, the warning jibes about lunches and coffees, the jokes about ties and shoes are House's way of helping him keep his promise. And he is grateful, he really is. Old habits are hard to break, and he appreciates his friend's support, the barbed reminders like the snap of a rubber band on his wrist when he has been in danger of sliding back into old patterns.

It isn't House's fault that Wilson has managed to be faithful to Julie and still screw it up.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

* * *

Wilson follows House into the crisp afternoon, coffee in hand. They sit in their usual spot, a few golden leaves still clinging tenaciously to the tree that shelters their table. The two men relax in companionable silence for awhile, enjoying what both know must be one of the last nice days of the season.

It has been a week since That Night, as Wilson has come to think of it. The impersonal appellation lets him avoid thinking too closely about what happened, or about how much more deeply Julie's bitter silence cuts him in the aftermath. He really had intended the kiss to be no more than comforting.

"I thought I could win her back." House's voice is casual as he squints at some distant point of noninterest.

Wilson shifts gears with the ease of long practice. He likes House's problems better than his own, anyway. "By calling her names, taunting her husband, and invading her privacy? Brilliant plan. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because, Doctor Pantypeeler, name-calling is how your relationships _end_." Humor is safer ground, and House meets his eyes with a playful smirk. "Mine, on the other hand, start that way. It's part of my charm."

Wilson regards House thoughtfully for a long moment. "Did you really think she would leave him?"

House looks away. "I think she'd be happier."

"Really? Or just that _you'd_ be happier?"

Exasperation colors House's sigh. "He … he lets her walk all over him. He doesn't challenge her. She might as well have married a Care Bear."

"Or maybe she's just discovered the pleasure of having a conversation with someone who doesn't make everything about winning."

"Great insight from someone who's conversed his way into two divorces. And speaking of divorce, how is Dr. Morgen today? Coffee in your office again this morning, I noticed."

"Are we back to this again? You know, just because _you_ don't know how to make friends with people…"

"Oh, please," House interrupts. "You don't make _friends_ with women. You make wives of them."

Wilson bites back a sharp retort. He doesn't want to have this fight, doesn't want to talk to House about Julie, definitely doesn't want to talk about Ella. Greg always does this, always deflects uncomfortable truths by turning questions on his questioner. In this mood, he'd draw blood without meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to, and just doesn't care how much his defensive tactics hurt anyone else. Well, two could play.

"She's a grown woman, House. She knows her own mind, she can decide for herself what makes her happy." Blue eyes meet brown, and House's faint nod acknowledges the point.

"And that doesn't include me."

Wilson picks up his empty coffee cup and stands. "Not anymore."

As he walks back to the building, leaving House sitting alone under the barren tree, his last words echo in his mind. _Not anymore_. He wonders if he had been talking more about House, or about himself.

He's not a philanderer anymore. He has come close, more times than he likes to admit, but hasn't crossed the line. He knows he owes House for that. But he's also not a good husband — not anymore. He owes House for that some, too. No, that's not fair. It was his decision to distance himself, his decision to be gone so much when things had gotten hard. House is just the friend who always opens the door to him, no questions asked.

He is fairly sure that Julie still loves him, despite everything. She had curled against him so sweetly, after. She had cried, but she had done it on his shoulder, as though there was still comfort in his touch. He is pretty certain he still loves her. It is hard to know, when love is all mixed up with frustration and hurt. And, Wilson reluctantly acknowledges, with anger. It doesn't feel like he has the right to be angry at Julie, but he is. He has worked harder at this relationship than any other in his life, has kept his promises, has not strayed. It doesn't matter.

Wilson nods absently at the nurse who pauses on her way out the patio door to hold it open for him.

Julie had pretty much stopped speaking to him after the first condom. They had talked endlessly about having children, the same arguments round and round for months. At 34, Julie was feeling the urgency of age, that her 'now or never' time was fast approaching. His refusal was adamant, and unexplained. "Because I don't want to," was all the reason he ever gave. Julie got progressively more frustrated, more desperate, until he'd begun to worry that she might take matters into her own hands and discontinue her birth control without telling him. The condom had been a slap in the face. Julie was a smart girl, it hadn't taken her long to recognize the mistrust it signified, or the intransigence of his refusal.

Things might be better, or at least not so bad, if he could offer her an explanation she could understand — if he disliked children, or he had some dire genetic legacy he didn't want to pass on. But the truth is that he can't make Julie understand, because _he_ doesn't understand. He just knows that the idea feels _wrong_.

Wilson's pager beeps as he steps into the elevator. He checks the display — room 426, Seth Greer's room. He'd left instructions with the resident to let him know if there were any blips in Seth's condition, and he wonders what has come up.

At the nurse's station, the resident is waiting for him. "He spiked a fever," the young doctor says, handing him the chart. "I've ordered blood cultures. You want ceftriaxone and levofloxicin while we wait for the cultures to come back?"

Wilson looks at the latest round of vitals recorded on the chart. A temp of 101.6 almost certainly means that Seth has picked up an infection. "Yes. And make sure Dr. Morgen gets copied on everything, would you?" He pulls his stethoscope from his pocket and heads into Seth's room to examine him and talk to his mom.

& & &

Evening finds Wilson sprawled on the comfy yellow chair in House's office, nursing a tumbler of rum and watching House practice barrel rolls with his yo-yo. "Cal Ripken, Jr."

House scoffs. "Only because he's famous for breaking Lou Gehrig's streak. Get real. Ernie Banks."

Wilson raises a brow. "I thought he played like half his career at first base."

"Doesn't mean he still wasn't the greatest shortstop ever. From 1955 to 1960, he hit more home runs than Mantle, Mays, _or_ Aaron. They didn't move him to first until the '62 season."

"Sure, but didn't he also lead the league in field errors somewhere in there? Good point about Ripken, though. Okay, I've got it. Honus Wagner. He tied Babe Ruth for Hall of Fame votes, and unlike Banks he could catch a ball."

"Couldn't hit one, though. Where are the homers?"

"Dead-ball era. Nobody could hit homers." House appears stymied, and Wilson presses his advantage. "Besides, you ought to love Wagner. He led the league eight times in thefts. Sounds like your kind of guy."

House loses the rhythm of the barrel roll and the yo-yo falls ungracefully out of the trick. He looks up at Wilson reproachfully, then away. "I apologized for that."

They aren't talking about baseball anymore.

"Do you think she'll forgive you?" It isn't an idle question. Stacy had been righteously angry when she figured out House had pilfered her file from the therapist's office.

House's lips twitch in a gesture Wilson can't quite read. "No." He glances back up. "Maybe. I don't know. It doesn't matter."

House doesn't say the rest, but Wilson knows anyway. Stacy is standing by her man, and House both admires her for it and wishes she wouldn't. House walks to the window and stares into the darkness. Wilson knows his friend is remembering the months after the surgery, how bitterly he'd fought his disability and how hateful he'd been to Stacy.

"No. Sometimes it doesn't matter." Wilson glances at his watch. It is after seven. Swallowing the last of the rum, he sets the glass down and rises, rolling down his shirtsleeves. "It's late. I've got to go."

"Going home?"

There is a certain emphasis on the last word that tells him House has not been oblivious to the nights he's slept in his office. Wilson is oddly touched. He'd thought Greg had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he'd overlooked that little detail.

"I promised Julie I'd be home for dinner at 7:30."

House turns away from the window, watching him as he collects his coat and briefcase. The expected sarcastic quip doesn't come. Instead, House just tracks him with hooded, unreadable eyes. When at last he speaks, it is soft, almost grudging. "It's good that you're trying. It won't be easy, with _her_ right here at the hospital every day."

For a moment, Wilson is confused. Julie works at an art gallery, not the hospital. Then he realizes that House, of course, means Ella. He closes his eyes and blows a long breath through his nose, then looks at House. "You just don't give up, do you?"

"She's smart, attractive, apparently available, and … she makes you blush, which is both becoming and obvious on your peaches-and-cream complexion."

Wilson smiles, despite himself. "You're barking up the wrong tree, for once. There's nothing there. We're friends; I've known her a long time." He meets House's eyes squarely. "But we have never slept together."

Disbelief is plain on House's face. "What, is she gay?"

He mentally apologizes to Ella. This is not his story to tell, but House is going to figure it out sooner or later. "No, she's widowed, and chooses not to get involved again."

The dramatic eyeroll is entirely predictable. "Another widow? Aren't we over our quota or something? At least it'll give Cameron someone to bond with."

"I… don't think so."

House raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for further explanation.

"Ella doesn't talk about it, and even if she wanted to, I think Cameron is about the last person she'd choose. They don't really have that much in common."

"What's not to bond over? Beloved husbands struck down before their time…"

Wilson smiles grimly. House is going to love this. "Because Ella's the one that killed him."

With that, he turns to go home. It isn't often he gets the last word.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

* * *

House doesn't stir for a long moment, contemplating the vacant doorway.

Wilson had looked him straight in the eye and told the truth, House feels certain. And the truth had surprised him. It simply hadn't occurred to him that Wilson wasn't sleeping with the hematologist. He feels vaguely troubled by the discovery, but can't put his finger on why.

He turns back to the window, staring out at the lighted cityscape without really seeing it. His fingers patter lightly over the polished surface of his cane.

Is it just that he is surprised to be wrong? Or that he is now unsure how to diagnose Wilson's obviously ailing marriage? Of course, the fact that Wilson isn't cheating with Morgen doesn't mean he hasn't been cheating with someone else, like that pretty girl in accounting. That doesn't feel like the right answer, somehow, or at least not all of the right answer. Something about Wilson's sudden closeness with Morgen still bothers him.

A fragment of melody finds him, right hand absently tapping out the treble line of _Ain't Misbehavin'._ A rare copy of Fats Waller's 1939 recording had been a present from Stacy, years ago.

He remembers the advice his calculus teacher gave him, freshman year: _When you don't know what to do, do something._ The prof had been talking about mathematical proofs, but House has found it to be good counsel for almost any situation. When he can't see his way to the answer, he shuffles things around until a pattern starts to emerge.

Very well, then. Wilson's relationship with Morgen is a two variable problem — Wilson, about whom he knows almost everything, and Morgen, about whom he knows almost nothing. _Solve for M._ He'll start with that.

* * *

& & &

* * *

Wilson lies awake in the dark, feeling the weight of it press down on him. The sound of Julie's soft breathing measures the passage of time. It tells him that he isn't alone, but he isn't sure he believes that. He wants to stretch out a hand and touch her, to feel the warm aliveness of her skin against his, but there might as well be a sword laid down in the space between them. She is too far away. 

Dinner did not go well. Julie had cooked, and he is pretty sure the food had been good. Oddly, he really can't remember. They had both been trying, but the conversation was stilted. When the polite civilities were done, neither of them knew what else to say.

He'd helped her clean up, rinsing the dishes and loading the dishwasher while she wrapped the leftovers. There had been too many of those; neither of them had eaten much.

Chores done, he had caught her hand as she turned to leave the kitchen, had drawn her close, had bent to kiss her; hoping, perhaps, to recapture some of the closeness they had shared one night last week. She had allowed the kiss, but only allowed it: not enjoyed it, not returned it, merely permitted it.

In the den, they had laid a fire in the fireplace, a date-night tradition. He'd settled on the couch, sitting at one end so she could sit the long way and tuck her feet under his thighs. But she took her novel to the armchair, not the sofa.

When she went to bed early, blaming the wine from dinner, he'd let her go without protest.

He turns on his side to watch her. Julie is the only person he's ever seen actually sleep the way people mime sleep, her palms pressed together and tucked endearingly beneath her cheek. He matches the slow rhythm of her breaths until he starts to feel the darkness sinking into him, pulling him down to join her in slumber. It is, he thinks vaguely, the first time they've been together all day.

& & &

Wilson spends the next night at the hospital. Julie is courteous when he calls to explain — _a touch-and-go patient, an early morning procedure, I might as well stay here_ — and he hears both the relief in her voice and her attempt to conceal it. They can't talk about what matters, and they can't talk about anything else. It is easier not to talk at all, though he knows that won't solve anything. So he plays the dedicated doctor and stops by to chat with each of his patients. He spends another hour at his desk, catching up on charting.

At last, when the corridor is empty and hushed, and there is no one left to wonder why he is still there, he stretches out on his couch with the latest issue of _The Lancet Oncology_ and reads until sleep claims him.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

* * *

Brilliant mid-morning sunlight drenches the lobby as if rewarding Ella for good behavior. She minds clinic duty less than some doctors she knows, but still tries to schedule herself for the earliest possible hours. She finds that people who show up to a walk-in clinic first thing in the morning tend to actually be sick. They're also generally less cranky than late-afternoon patients who may have been waiting for hours to see a doctor. And she just enjoys the feeling of having the obligation behind her instead of looming ahead of her.

Greg House falls neatly into step beside her as she leaves the clinic. Ella hasn't really ever spoken to him, but she knows who he is, of course.

She looks at him curiously, and offers a polite greeting. "Dr. House."

"Dr. Morgen," he responds, and walks with her to the elevator without another word. His silence discomfits her, and Ella is tempted to take the stairs to avoid him — but that would be both obvious and rude. Not that she cares much about rude, not with this man who has made it an art form, but she has heard enough to understand that it would be a mistake to let him know he'd gotten under her skin. So she lets him press the "Up" button and waits for him to speak, or the elevator to come, or the sky to fall.

The elevator doors open, and he courteously gestures for her to precede him. Ella glances warily at him. Courtesy seems out of character, and she wonders what he wants.

House is, depending on who she talks to, a misunderstood genius, a reckless maniac, a misanthropic bastard, or a scrooge with a heart of gold. Everyone — including James Wilson — seems to agree that he's an arrogant son of a bitch. Despite that, he's also James' closest friend. It's a relationship she doesn't quite understand.

She'd asked James about it over lunch a few weeks ago. "House is… different," he'd said with a bemused smile. "He sees things other people don't see." The comment hadn't exactly been enlightening, but it did feel insightful. It is the only thing anyone has said about who House _is_, apart from how he interacts with other people.

Stepping in, they stand side by side, carefully pretending to ignore each other in the way that strangers do on elevators. His posture is a study in nonchalance, both hands propped loosely on the head of his cane. He waits until the doors slide shut before speaking.

"So, why does a fourth-year medical student up and murder her husband?"

Ella keeps her face carefully neutral. How the hell had he learned about that? James, it had to be James, damn the man. Her hands tingle. _Fight, or flight_, whispers the adrenaline pouring into her veins. She's on a bloody elevator; there's nowhere to go, and she's never been the running type anyway.

With deliberate mildness, she offers her standard response to questions about her husband. "He died on duty." This is technically true, but she assumes House knows that it is also highly misleading.

"So the reports said. But when a cop dies in the line, there's press, lots of it. This not only didn't make the front page, it got just 193 words, below the fold, on page 4. Your husband did not die a hero."

His voice is conversational, as deceptively casual as his slouch.

"If he was a dirty cop and got himself killed doing something illicit, the media would have been all over it. Juicy scandals are so good for ratings. But they let the story drop. So it was something the department wanted to keep quiet, and the press cooperated."

Ella is beginning to think the elevator has fallen into a pothole in the space-time continuum when she finally feels it slow. She turns at last to look at House, who is watching for her reaction with an intensity she imagines must rival that of a circling hawk watching for prey. She spares a moment of pity for creatures who might find themselves pinned by that gaze; then, letting a faintly sardonic smile touch her lips, she leans in close for a conspiratorial whisper. "James Wilson has a big mouth."

The doors open and she steps briskly into the hall, unsurprised to hear the syncopated rhythm of his footsteps follow her.

"I don't need Wilson to connect the dots for me. The information is all right there in the public record."

She slants an amused look at him. It is really sort of sweet that House has gone out of his way to cover James' involvement. He needn't have worried — she has a pretty good guess how that revelation came about, and she isn't going to jump on James for it. Not hard, anyway.

"Dr. House, I have every faith that you _could_ have connected the dots. I just don't think you _did_. I've been pretty much a nonentity to you since I got here, and that's okay; I've got no ego tied up in being worth your notice. But I do find your sudden interest in seventeen year old news rather intriguing. I commend your thoroughness, but I have to wonder — why bother looking, unless you knew there was something to look for?"

They have reached her office, and he follows her in.

"I'm a diagnostician. Curiosity is pretty much in the job description."

She sits behind her desk and leans back, trying not to telegraph the tension knotting her spine. "Sure, but you weren't curious last week. Something changed. And given the way you hassle James about chasing skirts, I'm betting the 'something' is that he got fed up with your fixation on the number of times he's had lunch with me, and told you flat out that we aren't sleeping together. But you're the guy who lives by the maxim that everybody lies, and you know his history, so you didn't believe him. He had to tell you something more to get you to leave it alone."

House steps closer and she tries not to feel trapped. "That's all very fascinating, and also beside the point."

"What is the point, exactly?"

"Why did you kill your husband?"

"Why do you care?" She meets his icy stare without flinching.

After a long moment, he relaxes minutely, lips twitching in what could charitably have been called a smile. "I'm concerned for Wilson's personal safety."

Ella chuckles ruefully and feels her shoulders loosen. "Lucky for James he has a knight-errant to watch out for him. Emphasis on the _errant_, in your case." She looks at him consideringly. "I think you've already guessed why I did what I did. So you're here either because you think James has misjudged the safety of his maidenly virtue in my presence, or because I became more interesting to you _after_ you realized that I'm his friend, not his mistress."

House looks down and taps his cane against the floor. It thumps dully against the carpet. "He's trying to make his marriage work."

"And you think I'm a threat to that?"

"I want to make sure you aren't."

Her pager beeps, saving her the necessity of a response. She pulls it from the pocket of her lab coat and checks the display — PICU 3. "I have to go."

House doesn't move when she stands. He is in her way, and Ella edges carefully around him. At the doorway, she pauses and turns. "Whatever's wrong with his marriage, I'm not it."

* * *

& & &

* * *

Wilson stands outside Seth's room in the pediatric intensive care unit, reviewing the latest bloodwork with the resident. The infection, which had stubbornly resisted the original broad-spectrum antibiotics, had played merry hell with Seth's heart rate and blood pressure, prompting a move to the PICU. 

"It's hard to diagnose, and can be touchy to manage. Don't screw around with it; call in hematology when you think you've got a case."

As if on cue, Ella materializes at his side. "Excellent advice, Dr. Wilson." She throws a playful glance at the resident. "Were you taking notes?"

Wilson hands her a binder heavy with meticulously recorded clinical observations and lab results. "You got here fast."

"I wasn't with a patient." There is an edge to her voice, and he wonders what he interrupted.

Ella flips through the chart, comparing the previous sets of labs to the fresh one. "So the staph proved to be a resistant strain."

He nods. "I switched him to vancomycin before the cultures were even back — the ceftriaxone wasn't helping — but in the meantime his platelets dropped and renal function started to decline. BUN, creatinine, and potassium are all elevated."

She looks up at him, green eyes sharp and interested. "And based on that you ran a D-dimer? Rituximab _can_ be hard on the kidneys."

"Except that we gave him a prophylactic course of rasburicase before the chemo, and he's been on twice the maintenance hydration volume of IV fluids. His kidneys had been holding up well until the staph. This was the first sign of any renal failure, and in combination with dropping platelets and a gram-positive infection, it was suggestive. The D-dimer came back positive, so I paged you."

She raises an eyebrow. "Nice catch, James. The damn staph triggered DIC, as if Seth didn't have enough problems. Thanks for calling me in. It looks like you caught it early, his platelets aren't too out of whack yet. Is there any indication of hemorrhage?"

"Not yet, just the localized microvascular clotting in his kidneys."

"Let's take a look." Ella heads into the room to examine Seth. Wilson watches from the doorway as she sets the child at ease with silly banter. She slides her clinical questions in smoothly amidst inquiries about his favorite Power Rangers.

It occurs to Wilson that Ella would have been a good mother if things had been different.

For an instant he is seized by the memory of Julie waiting up for him, the traces of wine in her kiss, the sorrowful ache of the sonata. He sucks in a sharp breath, and the faintly antiseptic taste of hospital air brings him back to the present.

Finished with her exam, Ella rejoins him in the corridor and gives him a nod. "Okay. Let's treat with IV heparin for the DIC, go to three times maintenance fluids to help his kidneys out, and see if he can hold his own. Absent any hemorrhage, I don't think a platelet transfusion is called for at this point, but I'll make sure one of my residents is checking in every seven seconds or so. I want to stay ahead of this thing, especially since he's scheduled for his second dose of chemo in a couple of hours."

She scrawls her orders on the chart and returns it to him. Wilson initials it and hands the binder off to the resident. "He gets the second round of rituximab at eleven; we'll be back then to check on him and talk with his mom. Page me or Dr. Morgen if anything changes."

Leaving the resident to handle the orders, Wilson turns to walk her back to the elevators.

"Why," he muses dryly, "do I think you've probably bribed my nurses to time exactly how often the hematology resident does come by to check on Seth?"

"Perhaps because you know from experience that I'm an ornery bitch?"

The line wins a genuine smile from him. "I was going with sneaky, but ornery works too."

"Speaking of ornery, your friend Greg House cornered me earlier."

Wilson drops his eyes. "I'm sorry about that." He's not even sure which part of the situation he's apologizing for. For telling House where to find the chink in her armor? For not warning her to expect an ambush? He could have — _should_ have — told her first thing yesterday. Instead he'd waited, and the longer he'd waited the easier it became not to say anything.

Really, he's sorry for all of it, and settles on something vague enough for her to interpret however she likes. "I should have handled things better."

He waits for her to ream him out like she would have when he was an intern, listing the things he _should_ have thought of in the dangerously patient voice she saves for residents who've done something spectacularly stupid. It doesn't come.

For a moment, he remembers House, remembers the unexpected gentleness House had offered him two nights ago, instead of the usual edged wit.

Internship was a long time ago. He looks up, and finds no condemnation in her face, not even anger, just the weariness of old and familiar pain.

"Will I be able to avoid this?" Her voice is soft, pitched for his ears alone.

He swallows. "No. House with a puzzle is like … well, there's really no comparison that would do it justice."

Her eyes unfocus as she processes this. At length, she meets his gaze again and nods. "Okay then."

After a pause, she continues. "He's worried about you, you know. And so am I."

Wilson doesn't say anything.

"Are you okay?"

He smiles without humor. "I really don't know."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Wilson feels his throat close, unaccountably moved at this simple expression of compassion. He thinks of Greg and the silent piano, of Julie and the empty bedroom she'd meant for a nursery. He wants a hug, to be wrapped in simple human affection, but he knows better than to ask. She shakes hands, she examines patients, but he's never seen Ella touch another person if she could politely avoid it.

So he shakes his head. "Not really, no."

Her crow's feet deepen as she looks at him intently. "Well, if there is anything, you've got my cell number. Call me anytime."

He nods, and turns to go as she pushes the elevator call button. He can feel her eyes on his back all the way down the hall.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

* * *

House's face relaxes into a rare expression of unguarded pleasure, something only music seems to bring him anymore. 

"_I got plenty o'nuthin, nuthin's plenty for me." _

Mel Torme's baritone is like really, really good whiskey, dark and velvety and intoxicating.

"_I got no car, got no mule, I got no misery."_

House is lying on the floor, feet propped on his chair. It is the oddest of his usual positions for relaxation, and one of his favorites. Not only is he mostly hidden behind his desk — a casual glance by someone looking to give him work to do would reveal only an empty office — but the position eases the muscles of his thigh, hip, and back.

The weather has turned cold, and the arrival of winter always means a few weeks of intractable, bone-deep ache in his leg, until the maimed nerves and muscles adjust to the season. More pain in his leg means he compensates by abusing the rest of his body, limping harder and relying more on the cane. By late afternoon everything hurts, more or less, and he takes any respite he can find. With his feet up and back flat, shutting out the world with closed eyes and rich music in his earphones, he is almost comfortable.

The iPod brings up _Ain't Misbehavin'_ next. This is Satchmo's version, the muted trumpet flirting with the piano and giving the lie to the title — there's no way those saucy riffs aren't hinting at all sorts of entertaining misbehaviors. House smiles to himself. Even trumpets, it seems, are not exempt from the rule that everybody lies.

His smile fades as he remembers his rather unsatisfying conversation that morning with Ella Morgen. She may not have lied, but she is very good at deflecting conversation away from truths she doesn't want to discuss — almost as good as he is, in fact.

He still hasn't parsed her relationship with Wilson, but he doesn't like the pattern. Wilson has been spending too much time at the hospital for a man who is trying to save his marriage, and too much time in Morgen's company. _Solve for M_, he reminds himself. He needs more data.

House turns his head to glance out the window. The angle of the light suggests sunset is not far off. About four-thirty then. She is probably in her office.

With a sigh, he lifts his crossed legs off the chair, letting his left leg do the work of carrying the right leg to the floor. This is the major drawback to relaxing in this position: it's hard to get up. Rolling into a kneel, he touches the desk for balance and pushes himself up, left leg taking his weight. The maneuver has the smoothness of long practice; a casual observer would probably never guess at the careful choreography required for such an ordinary thing.

He grabs his cane and limps into the hall. Not only will needling Morgen give him more information to work with, it will also provide an entertaining distraction to occupy him until he can take another Vicodin.

& & &

Her office is lamp-lit, with a warm and welcoming atmosphere designed to put nervous patients at ease. It looks nothing at all like his own office.

House leans in the open doorway, watching her work. She is reviewing patient charts, meticulously making notes in each. Also nothing like his office.

"So why _does_ a fourth-year medical student up and murder her husband?"

She freezes for the barest instant, then continues writing in the chart before her. A less careful observer would have missed the pause, but not House. He knows he's gotten to her, however skilled she may be at covering it.

Without looking at him, she replies, "You're the diagnostic mind of a generation, Dr. House. You tell me."

"Okay." He pushes off from the doorframe and moves to a chair across the desk from her. He sprawls casually in it, exuding lazy confidence.

"I think he hit you. A lot."

Her pen scratches steadily across the page. She doesn't so much as glance up, but her silence is an affirmation.

"Lots of battered wives _want_ to kill their husbands, I'm sure, but surprisingly few of them actually do. Mostly they just leave." He lets the comment hang there, knowing she'll understand it for the question — almost an accusation — that it is.

House watches the top of her bent head, his right hand rocking the cane back and forth. Sooner or later she'll respond. He can wait.

At last Morgen closes the chart and meets his eyes, folding her hands on the blotter. "Did you know that eighty-five percent of the women who die at the hands of an abusive partner are killed _after_ they leave him?"

The cane stills. After a long moment he looks down, ducking his head in something that is almost half a nod. That is a fair — and rather tragic — point, one he bets most counselors at battered women's shelters don't mention to their clients. He wonders if more of those clients would kill their husbands if they knew that statistic.

His eyes flick up to meet hers again. "But you didn't call the police, didn't file assault charges."

A bitter laugh escapes her. "He _was_ the police. He'd stop home mid-shift for a quickie and —" She bites off whatever she'd been about to say. With a deep exhalation, she shifts uncomfortably in her chair and looks down at her hands. "I should have. I figured out later I could have gone to his squad, showed them the bruises. They would have helped."

Her lips twist as she meets his gaze. "But I was young, I'd seen one too many movies about the silence of the thin blue line."

So she'd decided to kill him.

It must have felt too dangerous to stay, even more dangerous to leave, the police potential enemies as much as potential rescuers. She had done the math.

Morgen is watching him steadily, no trace of nervousness in her posture now. "What do you want, House?"

The cane resumes its rocking.

"You were never arrested." Probably the police had waited for the district attorney to weigh in; they wouldn't have wanted to arrest a cop's wife, even with his blood literally on her hands.

The corners of her mouth twitch, but her eyes never leave him. "He'd beaten me bloody."

House admires the cold logic of it, even as he's faintly appalled. She had let him beat her, maybe even provoked him, then killed him. The D.A. had likely taken one look at the marks on her and called it self-defense.

He wonders if Wilson knows how calculated her decision had been.

"What do you want?" she repeats.

He had guessed right about her husband, she'd even confirmed his suspicion that the death had been premeditated.

Wilson is a real bastard in some ways — as all of his wives could attest — but he is also charmingly idealistic. Had the same naïve optimism that had taken Wilson to the chupah three times in fifteen years let him accept the self-defense story at face value?

"So it's what, some kind of misguided penance that you never remarried? A lifetime of self-denial to make up for the sin of killing a brutal son of a bitch who deserved what he got? Or maybe it's just cowardice. Once bitten, blah blah blah."

Her face is very still, but the whitened knuckles of her folded hands give her anger away. "Oh, please. Let's not pretend you're actually interested in my love life, Dr. House. You just want to know why I haven't fucked James. Look, word around the hospital is that you're a first class misanthrope, so I understand this may be a foreign concept: James and I are friends. Why the hell that bothers _you_ so much, I don't know, but for his sake I wish you'd get over it."

House opens his mouth to respond, but she runs right over him, leaning forward with an oddly intent expression. "Do you really think so little of James that you can't imagine a woman would be interested in him for anything else?"

Morgen is an anomaly, an aberrant datum on the scatterplot of Wilson's life. She breaks the pattern of his relationships with women.

House knows she had been a hematology fellow at Hopkins when Wilson was an intern, that they had worked a few cases together on his oncology rotation. The grapevine says she is a gifted teacher; maybe Wilson had developed a touch of hero-worship. Certainly House has watched more than one young doctor get revoltingly starry-eyed over Wilson, and there is a certain amusement in picturing the confident oncologist in the role of awestruck mentee. But hero-worship wears off. In the dozen or so years since their time together at Hopkins, the two of them have obviously stayed in touch, have stayed close enough to fall easily into a comfortable rapport.

"I think that says more about my opinion of women," he counters.

"Or maybe," she continues, as if he hadn't spoken. "Maybe it's more that you don't think enough of James to imagine that _he_ would be interested in a woman for anything else."

Her eyes narrow, and House suddenly recognizes that intent expression. It's the same one he gets when he's certain he has figured something out.

"Or does it just piss you off that he's having lunch with me, instead of you?"

He stands abruptly. "Save your breath," he says in a voice dripping with scorn. "I'm not interested in your pearls of pop-psychology wisdom. I certainly couldn't care less about your love life, I'm just fascinated by the novelty of having a murderess on grand rounds."

The barb was meant to sting, but Morgen looks suddenly relaxed, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Good night, Dr. House," she says, and opens another patient chart.

He watches her work for a moment, then turns with a wry smile to leave.

* * *

& & &

* * *

The early morning oncology rounds find Wilson facing Ella across the bed of an increasingly ill Seth Greer, fresh labs in hand. The chief resident, leading her gaggle of young doctors, raises her eyebrows in surprise to find two attendings — including her department head — already in the room. 

"Dr. Wilson, Dr. Morgen, I'm sorry for interrupting. We can come back, if…"

Wilson waves off her apology. "Go ahead, Dr. Reed."

She nods, and turns expectantly to the intern assigned to the case.

"Seth Greer, age eight," the young man begins. "Entered a clinical trial of chemotherapy eight days ago to treat recurrent small noncleaved cell lymphoma. He was moved to the PICU two days ago for close monitoring when he contracted a cephalosporin-resistant staph infection. He responded well to vancomycin, but developed DIC with apparently localized renal microvascular thrombosis. After administration of heparin, his platelet count rebounded and renal function showed some improvement, and he received the second round of chemo yesterday, on schedule."

Wilson notes with approval that if the intern is nervous at presenting directly to the Head of Oncology, he doesn't show it. "How are his morning labs?"

"Not great," the intern admits. "Platelets look fine, but his potassium and uric acid are both somewhat elevated. His kidneys are still having trouble, and the ECG shows mildly peaked T-waves from the hyperkalemia."

"Your assessment?"

"The chemotherapy and vancomycin have seriously challenged his kidneys, which were compromised by the DIC. I think he's got renal insufficiency."

"What's your plan?"

"Allopurinol to help his kidneys out, continue pushing fluids, and monitor closely. If his renal function doesn't improve in the next four hours, call nephrology to request dialysis."

Wilson nods. It isn't a bad plan, but he thinks the inexperienced doctor has allowed himself to get too focused on the DIC and forget about other potential complications.

"Dr. Morgen, do you concur?"

Ella doesn't respond directly, but turns to the intern. "Why is his uric acid high?"

The intern swallows. Wilson can see in his face that he understands he has missed something but hasn't figured out yet where Ella is going.

"The renal insufficiency means his kidneys aren't excreting it fast enough."

Ella lifts one eyebrow. "Where are his BUN and creatinine?"

"Mildly elevated."

"And his uric acid to creatinine ratio?"

The intern looks at the chart. "Uh, 0.83."

"What is the reference range of that ratio for hyperuricemia secondary to renal insufficiency?"

There is a long silence, and finally Ella looks at the chief resident expectantly.

"A ratio of less than 0.7 would indicate underexcretion, Dr. Morgen," supplies Reed. "Something as high as 0.83 suggests overproduction."

Ella gives Reed a satisfied nod and returns her attention to the intern. "And hyperuricemia by overproduction _and_ hyperkalemia usually means what in a cancer patient?"

Wilson can almost see the light bulb go on over the intern's head.

"Possible tumor lysis syndrome."

"Yes." Ella turns grave eyes to Wilson. "His platelet count is good, BUN and creatinine are barely above normal; this isn't the DIC."

Wilson blows out a long breath. "I didn't think it was, but I wanted the hematology consult to be sure. Dr. Reed, nephrology has already been paged for the dialysis. Finish your rounds, then come present your plan for monitoring and treatment."

He parts ways with Ella outside the PICU, taking the stairs and making his way to the Diagnostic Medicine conference room. House has better coffee — and better distractions — than the oncology lounge. But the room is empty when he arrives, and the whiteboard bears a laundry list of symptoms. House and his team must have gotten a good case this morning.

Okay, so no distraction, but he might as well enjoy the Sulawesi. He pours himself a mug of the dark, rich coffee and crosses to House's office, dropping into the big yellow chair with a sigh. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against the cushion. It smells faintly like its usual occupant, a warm and familiar scent.

Tumor lysis is not good news, and Wilson knows he'll spend the day dreading a 911 page to the PICU. The problem is, ironically, the result of the chemotherapy's success. Chemo kills the lymphoma, and dying tumor cells slough off into the bloodstream, shedding their toxic contents faster than the body can filter and excrete them. With any luck, the prophylactic measures they've taken will head off serious complications, and Seth will be able to weather it out.

He tries not to think of how little luck Seth has enjoyed in the last few months.

Eight hours later, he can think of nothing else.

Wilson stands at the foot of Seth's bed, watching the pediatric intensivist replace the defibrillator paddles in their cradle. Seth's mother is just outside, wailing a denial of the words Wilson is about to say.

"Time of death, 15:49."

The tumor lysis had lain quiet most of the day, until some unknowable balance was upset and the toxins had come pouring into Seth's system, spiking his phosphorus, uric acid, and potassium levels. The potassium was the most critical; hyperkalemia had induced cardiac arrest. The intensivist had brought him back once, and briefly controlled the arrhythmia with drugs, but hadn't been able to keep ahead of the multi-system organ failure.

He feels drained, as if his body has suddenly recalled all the fitful, restless nights of the last weeks.

In the hall, he pauses to put a hand on Mrs. Greer's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, knowing she doesn't really hear.

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. It is all the grief he has time for; another patient is waiting.

* * *

& & &

* * *

Ella finds him in his office. 

He sits on the couch, head bowed, elbows resting on his knees. The last honeyed rays of the setting sun cast an incongruously lovely glow over his hunched form. She opens the glass door, lets it come to rest on her shoulder as she pauses on the threshold. "James."

He doesn't look up. "He was eight years old." Heartbreak is in his voice.

The door drifts shut behind her. She walks slowly into the office, tucking her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. "He was unlucky."

James lifts his face to her, his usually boyish features engraved with lines. "Do you ever wish you'd picked a different specialty?"

"One that doesn't hurt so much?" She is silent for a moment, considering the question, then shakes her head with a wry grimace. "No. Not really. And neither do you. We're good at what we do, James. And the unlucky ones would still be dying even if you and I were in practice together as podiatrists."

His lips turn up slightly at the corners, but it couldn't really be called a smile. In a frustrated gesture she has seen a thousand times, his hand comes up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he draws and releases a deep breath. "Yeah." The hand falls to his lap, and he watches as she moves to sit on his right, a careful space between her leg and his.

She looks at him, and doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to, knowing he'll see in her eyes the weight of her own cloak of ghosts. He nods slightly, then lets his head drop again.

They sit wordlessly in the gathering darkness. After a time, her left hand moves to cover his right, cool fingers settling gently over his warmer ones. He sighs as if a burden has been lifted, and does not look up.

* * *

& & &

* * *

House makes his way to Wilson's office, cane tapping a staccato rhythm. He heard about the cancer kid's death, and knows his friend will take this one hard. Even the most toughened doctor's heart breaks just a little when a child dies under his care. House pauses when he sees someone already in the office with Wilson, stops altogether when he sees who it is. Ella Morgen is sitting next to Wilson on the couch. They aren't speaking, but… Wilson is holding her hand? 

House's eyes narrow, and his mouth tightens fractionally. He watches them a few moments more, then moves on, cane tapping just a little harder as he limps to his own office.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

* * *

The soft _whirr_ of the CD spinning up in his alarm clock wakes Wilson. He shuts it off before the CD begins playing, and turns his head to look at Julie. She is asleep, still and peaceful.

For once, he feels pretty peaceful himself. He knows things are still not well between them, but this morning it doesn't seem impossible that they will find their way back to one another, will mend the broken parts of their marriage.

Last night he'd come home exhausted. Over the years he has gotten good at distancing himself from the everyday tragedies of an oncology practice. He has seen hundreds of patients lose their battle with cancer, and learned to put sorrow away and move on to the next case. But he has never really gotten used to watching children die.

Julie was quietly sympathetic, like she had been in the early days of their marriage. She'd warmed up some dinner for him, then poured him a finger of scotch and sent him to bed early.

Much later, he had awakened to the feel of her hands and mouth upon him. She had made love to him in the darkness, even allowing the condom without complaint. Afterward, watching her curl up on her side of the bed, he'd reached out to touch her hair and whispered, "I love you."

And he does. He still loves her, and it seems she still loves him. By itself, Wilson knows, that isn't enough. But it's a lot.

He presses a kiss to his fingertips and lays them gently on her cheek, then slides out of bed and heads for the shower.

& & &

After morning rounds, Wilson finds himself with fifteen minutes before his first scheduled appointment of the day. Just enough time to get some decent coffee.

He arrives at the Diagnostic Medicine office just in time to see Cameron, Chase, and Foreman sweep out purposefully. House remains in the conference room, regarding the whiteboard with a satisfied air that tells Wilson the tests about to be run by the fellows will be mere confirmation; House is already sure of the answers.

Wilson hopes that means House will be in a better mood today and over whatever frustration had made him so spectacularly cranky last night. Wilson had come to see House before going home, but his friend had been curt and irritable, and he hadn't stayed long.

"Good case?"

"Just a stupid patient. She spent four months in Africa several years ago and picked up filariasis."

Pouring a cup of coffee, Wilson glances over his shoulder at House in surprise. "Her GP didn't consider filariasis, with a stay in Africa on her medical history?"

"This is where the stupid comes in. She didn't _tell_ her doctor she'd been in Africa. She's been leaving it off her medical history, because she didn't want to get disqualified from giving blood. She's convinced, you see, that the prohibition on donating if you've been to Africa is racially motivated. So now we not only get to save her sorry ass from a lifetime of cruel disfigurement, we get to see if the blood bank can track down the people who received her blood, just in case she infected them."

Wilson rolls his eyes and follows House into his office. For once, House's cynicism seems entirely justified.

"I heard the kid died," House says as he drops into his desk chair.

Sitting across from him, Wilson sips cautiously at his hot coffee. The blunt observation doesn't hurt, and he is relieved to find that his clinical distance has returned. Last night with Julie had annealed him, somehow, given him back the ability to let Seth be just one more patient, a professional regret.

"Tumor lysis," he responds.

"Tough break." House rocks back in his chair, bringing his feet up to rest on the desk. The practiced move almost conceals the fact that the left leg does all the lifting, but Wilson doesn't miss House's faint wince. The lingering autumn had ended abruptly with a cold snap a couple of nights ago, and Wilson knows the chill has a way of sinking into joints and scar tissue. That is probably contributing to the crankiness, in fact; the onset of winter generally means House has more pain and less patience.

"Just one of those cases that got haunted by Murphy's Law. You want to get lunch later? My committee meeting got rescheduled."

"What, Morgen couldn't get you on her schedule for lunch?" House's tone is positively acid, and Wilson blinks in mild surprise.

"Morgen? Why would you —" He breaks off midsentence and looks questioningly at House, then starts to smile. He knows he shouldn't, but he really can't help himself. "Wait, are you… Are you _jealous?_"

House looks away. "Don't be stupid."

"You're _jealous_. What, are we in second grade? I'm friends with you, so I'm not allowed to be friends with her?" Wilson is trying for annoyed, maybe even a little outraged, but he can't get past amused. "Oh, this is good."

House barks a laugh. "You're suffering from delusions of grandeur. What on earth makes you think I give a damn _who_ you have lunch with?"

"You're the one who brought it up, but just for that you can buy _me_ lunch for a change," Wilson says with a grin. He stands. "I'll see you at noon."

& & &

The rest of the morning is busy, and the relaxed moment with House is the only break he has time for. As he works, though, one corner of his mind is occupied with their conversation, turning over the fascinating nugget he'd uncovered.

The idea that House might be jealous of his friendship with Ella had never crossed his mind, but it makes a certain amount of sense. He thinks back, remembers that House had, if anything, gotten _more_ cranky after Wilson let him know there wasn't so much as a whiff of infidelity to be found there.

They have never talked about it, but Wilson knows that he is House's best friend, and House is his. It is charming, he decides, that House might be a little less than completely secure about it, that he might worry just a tad. He knows House cares about him; even if it has always been an unspoken thing, the evidence is in the way House trusts him enough to relax with him. Still, it is nice to know he isn't taken for granted.

Wilson's good mood lasts until mid-afternoon, when his secretary hands him a large, flat envelope that had been delivered by messenger. _Bierman, Wegner & Stone_. Shit. Messengered papers from a law firm are never good news. He slits the envelope, trying to think of recent patients or families that might feel like they have cause to sue.

The papers slide out onto his desk, and he forgets to breathe.

_COMPLAINT FOR DIVORCE_, the header reads, _in re the marriage of JULIE STEIN WILSON, plantiff, and JAMES BRADFORD WILSON, defendant._

He skims the document. New Jersey law allows no-fault divorces only if the couple has been living in separate homes for eighteen months or more. Julie has filed on the grounds of "extreme cruelty," alleging that his refusal to give her children constitutes intolerable mental cruelty. It is, he thinks numbly, at least a change from the adultery that had been the grounds for his first two divorce petitions.

Looking at the bold strokes of her signature at the bottom, he remembers her radiant smile as she'd signed their marriage certificate. Later, she had laughingly confessed that she'd practiced signing _Julie Stein Wilson_ over and over the night before the wedding, wanting it to be perfect, nervous that she'd make a mistake.

The petition bears today's date. She was at her attorney's office today, within the last few hours. While he'd been joking with House and treating patients and feeling hopeful that they would work things out, she had been with a lawyer, ending their marriage. Ending their life together.

He feels dizzy, and grips the edge of his desk. He closes his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids holds no reprieve, just the memory of Julie moving above him, the weight of her breasts in his hands, the scent of her arousal, the breathless urgency in her voice when he had touched her just so and she whimpered his name. She had come to him, and he'd thought it was love. It had been good-bye.

Wilson draws a deep breath, then another, and opens his eyes. The papers are still there. He spreads them out. Complaint for Divorce. Prenuptial Agreement. They'd even included an Affidavit of Consent. The latter bears a yellow post-it note, with a single word in Julie's handwriting: _Please._ He can imagine her in the lawyer's office, wanting to write something personal to soften the coldness of the stark black words on white paper, but not knowing what to say, how to explain.

The pre-nup makes the mechanics of divorce simple. All he has to do is sign the Affidavit of Consent before a notary.

With a sudden motion, he sweeps the papers back into the envelope and walks out, pausing at his secretary's desk.

"I've got a family emergency. Would you reschedule the rest of my appointments today, please?" He leaves without waiting for a response.

& & &

Julie's car is in the driveway. He'd known it would be. She wouldn't have gone to the gallery, knowing he'd be getting the papers that afternoon.

Music greets him when he opens the door. He recognizes the duet from _The Marriage of Figaro_ only because it was in _The Shawshank Redemption_. Wilson hates opera. Julie, on the other hand, loves it, and owns three versions of this one. This is her comfort music.

He finds her in the den, exactly where he expected to. She is curled up in a corner of the sofa, knees drawn up beneath her chin and fingers laced across her ankles. When she sees him in the doorway, she reaches for the remote and turns the music off.

The silence is awful.

It stretches out interminably, as he looks at her, helpless. He doesn't know what to say.

Finally, she breaks the impasse. "James," she begins, then stops.

He waits.

"Will you sign it?" she asks at last.

"I thought," he starts to say, but his throat is so dry it is barely more than a whisper. He swallows, and tries again. "I thought we agreed to work on this. I thought we agreed to give it time."

She comes off the couch like a spring uncoiling, every line of her body taut. "I _have_ given it time. We've been round and round with this for _months_. You say, 'try to understand, Julie. Give it time, Julie. This is hard for me, Julie.'" She crosses her arms in front of her, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "And I've tried to understand, I've tried to be patient. But nothing has changed, James. At the end of it all, you don't want children, and I don't understand why."

"Don't you think I wish I could explain it to you?" She flinches, and he realizes he is shouting at her. He modulates his tone with an effort. "It's just what I feel."

Julie throws up her hands and turns away, walking to the window. "I have no idea what that means."

"What does it have to mean? It's just what I feel. It is what it is. Look, I _am_ trying here, Julie. I love you, and I want to be with you, I want to make this work."

She turns back to face him. "You say you love me, but —"

"I do love you!"

"Then why won't you have children with me?" she shouts in frustration.

"Because I don't —" He stops abruptly, appalled at what he'd been about to say.

_Because I don't want to be one of those dads who only sees his kids every other weekend._

"What? You don't what?"

Is that really it? Has he been avoiding having children because deep down, he has never really believed their marriage would last?

"James, _what_?"

He loves her. But in a razor-edged moment of clarity, he realizes that he never really committed to her. From the very beginning, from the day they signed the pre-nup, from the day they took their vows, he has been waiting for the end.

All the anger of the fight drains out of him in a rush, leaving him hollow.

He loves her. It is a lot. But it isn't enough.

She crosses the room to stand before him. The effort to understand is plain on her face as she looks up at him. "James, what?" Her voice is gentle this time.

No, it is not nearly enough.

"Yeah. I'll sign." She is so lovely, and he can't bear to look at her another moment. He turns, and walks out.

& & &

House likes to mock the Volvo as being life-threateningly dull, but the truth is that Wilson loves driving it. He'd taken the highway north to a little scenic byway along the east bank of the Millstone River. The S80 feels solid and powerful beneath him, covering the hills and curves with a smooth confidence that gives him an illusion of control.

His window is halfway open, and the rush of wind and road noise is deafening. The chill air stings his face and lungs, but it feels good. This must be how House feels on his motorcycle, he thinks. Raw. Connected to the experience of forward motion in a way Wilson doesn't get in his climate-controlled, sound-proofed passenger cabin.

Nausea washes through him suddenly, and he pulls over with a lurch.

Sitting sideways in the driver's seat, head between his knees, he feels like he could wake up if he tried, could find himself burrowed beneath the covers with Julie, an hour or two left before the alarm summons him to the day. But he can hear the river in the distance, and one shoelace is coming untied, and the bitter tang of bile stings the back of his throat. He swallows firmly and wills the nausea down.

After a few more slow breaths, he feels sure he isn't going to lose his lunch. He stands, locking the car, and walks toward the river. There's a path alongside it, a slender strip of pavement winding among the bare trees. It will be beautiful in the spring, like one of those postcards sold at gas stations and tourist traps in a vain attempt to get the word out that New Jersey is, in fact, a pretty state. But in November, the riverbank is all washed-out shades of brown, the river itself grey and forbidding. Only a real nature freak would find the scene anything but dismal — or an oncologist, accustomed to seeing past the ravages of cancer and chemotherapy to the bones of beauty beneath.

Today, Wilson is just as glad it isn't lush and green and welcoming. Dismal suits his mood. He turns up the collar of his coat against the breeze and jams his hands in his pockets.

The worst part is, he just can't think of anything he could have done differently. Well, that's not entirely true. He could have been more attentive, could have insisted they get marriage counseling when the children issue wouldn't go away. He could even have agreed to have children with her, though the thought still makes his guts twist. In the end, though, he doesn't think any of those things would have mattered. He had failed her from the very beginning. Even while he'd been patting himself on the back for working so hard at the relationship, he'd been setting up its demise in a self-fulfilling prophecy that would have been amusingly ironic if it had happened to someone else.

He doesn't know what to do next.

Wilson stares at the river as if some secret wisdom might lurk in its depths. It flows by, placid and unhelpful.

& & &

The surface of the bar is well-worn, scarred by years of fights and games and sweating glasses. Someone has scratched _I ♥ Lacey _into the wood. He idly traces the words with a finger. Lacey's admirer must have sat here long ago; the marks have been polished smooth.

The tavern is clearly a local watering hole, but the bartender had been friendly enough when Wilson sat down and ordered a beer. He drinks the first half quickly, then props his elbows on the bar and scrubs his face with his hands. The cliché is dreadful, he knows; pathetic guy en route to his third — _third!_ — divorce, parked on a barstool and looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle.

With sudden certainty, Wilson knows he doesn't want to be here. He leaves a five dollar bill on the bar and walks out.

& & &

The drive back into Princeton seems endless. Dark has fallen, and there is nothing to see but the road illuminated by his headlights. He replays his conversation with Julie over and over in his mind. It seems a world away from this morning, when he'd been so hopeful. How had things gone so badly wrong?

It was his fault, of course, his failure. That he hadn't cheated on her is almost a technicality. Still, he _hadn't_ cheated, had tried so hard to make it work. That should count for something, should matter.

But of course, it doesn't matter at all.

He slides the Volvo into a parking spot and kills the engine. It is only when he gets out of the car that he realizes, with distant surprise, he has driven not to his home, but to House's. Pocketing his keys, he walks to the door and rings the bell.

If House is surprised to find Wilson on his doorstep, he doesn't show it. Without a word, he steps aside to let Wilson in, then walks into the kitchen, leaving him to make himself at home.

Beneath the chatter of the television, Wilson can hear something sizzling. It smells sort of Asian, and his mouth waters. House is a good cook, though probably nobody but Wilson and Stacy knows that.

He collapses lengthwise onto the couch and stares up at the ceiling, tallying the measure of his life. Three divorces, all of them his fault. Professional accolades aplenty and a job he loves, when it doesn't break his heart. A bevy of chummy acquaintances, half of whom politely loathe him for his meteoric rise at Princeton-Plainsboro. And two good friends, each profoundly damaged in their way.

It probably says something telling that he is better at being friends with House than he is at being married, but he has no idea what.

His gaze drops to the piano. Sheet music is scattered across the top, and the keyboard cover is open. He feels a little relieved to see evidence that the piano has been played recently. He wonders what it means that Greg hasn't played for him.

As if summoned by his thought, House walks in with a bowl of something fragrantly spicy, a pair of funky red and orange chopsticks confirming Wilson's guess of Asian. "Dinner's on," he says, parking the cane and dropping into his chair.

In the kitchen, Wilson finds that House has left a full bowl, a pair of chopsticks, and a beer on the counter for him. He can't repress a grin when he sees the black and white lacquered chopsticks; put them together and turn them just so, and the seemingly abstract white patterns join to form the Playboy bunny logo. Collecting his food, he heads back to the living room.

Dinner turns out to be a pork and vegetable stir fry, in some sort of peanut sauce, served over rice. Wilson digs in appreciatively. He has never picked up the knack of getting the rice to turn out properly sticky so it could be eaten with chopsticks, but House does it perfectly.

_The Daily Show_ provides a good excuse not to talk, and Wilson finishes his meal without having to say a word. When the show ends, he grabs the remote and mutes the television.

"That was good. Thanks."

"_Mi comida es tu comida._ Invite yourself over anytime."

Silence stretches out between them. Wilson knows House will never ask.

He hasn't wanted to talk about it, and isn't entirely sure he wants to now. Mostly he doesn't know where to start.

"I'm getting divorced," he says finally.

House studies him for a long moment. "I'm sorry."

The direct blue regard is a little unnerving, and Wilson looks away, his gaze falling again on the piano. "I think… I think maybe I'm done. Three is enough." He pauses, trying to think how to explain it. "I don't know how to fix what went wrong. I never cheated on her."

House doesn't say anything, but Wilson can almost hear the gears turning. "She wants children," he continues. "And I…" he hesitates. "I realized I can't make that kind of commitment."

Wilson glances at House, who meets his eyes with an unreadable expression.

"If you need someplace to stay…" House says at last.

Wilson nods shortly and looks away. "Maybe just for a few days. Until I figure out what comes next."

Suddenly restless, Wilson stands and collects their dishes. He knows House's kitchen as well as his own, and easily finds containers to pack up the leftover stir fry. He dribbles dish soap over the small pile of dirty dishes and cookware in the sink, and runs hot water. House likes to cook, but hates cleaning up. Even before the infarction, Wilson made a habit of thanking House for a good meal by taking care of the dishes.

He is rinsing the skillet when the music starts. He freezes for a moment, until he is sure. It is not a CD, but House, at the piano. He puts the pan in the dish drainer, then braces his hands on the edge of the sink and closes his eyes.

Wilson doesn't recognize the piece, is nearly sure he hasn't heard it before, but something about it seems almost familiar, like déjà vu. It has a rolling, bluesy feel, tense with dissonances that resolve into bittersweet chords.

Walking to the living room, he pauses at the doorway to watch House play, watch his long fingers move smoothly over the keys. His head is bent, eyes half shut.

Wilson settles quietly on the couch. He closes his eyes again and listens, trying just to be in this moment. Tomorrow will be soon enough to think. Right now, he just wants this, to be right here, where he doesn't have to answer any questions, doesn't have to do anything but sit and listen to his friend make music.

As much as anywhere else, he is home.

_Fin.

* * *

_

_Many, many thanks to Meldraw for the fantastic beta, and to the very kind folks -- especially pwcorgigirl -- who offered reviews and encouragement along the way.  
_


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